


Words in the Morning, Whispers at Night

by coatofflowers



Series: Like a Two-Tailed Cat [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Antagonizing Solas, Dorian has self esteem issues, Fluff, M/M, Sera is herself, Sort-of Love Confessions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-24
Updated: 2016-06-24
Packaged: 2018-07-17 22:56:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7289383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coatofflowers/pseuds/coatofflowers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One Sunday morning Dorian hears Lavellan murmur something in Elvhen, half in a dream. It's probably nothing. He needs to go and find a translator immediately. But it's probably nothing.</p><p>Written for a Tumblr prompt: Dorian tries to figure out what "ma'vhenan" means and the only elves he knows are Sera and Solas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Words in the Morning, Whispers at Night

“Sera?”

Dorian peeked into the tavern room carefully, brow taut with a frown. Sera sat cross-legged in the center of the floor, peeling paper from a muffin. At the sound of her name her head snapped up. 

“Hey, fancy-arse!” She grinned at Dorian widely, all gums and pointed canines and bits of pastry.

Dorian smirked. “Imp.” He entered, taking a seat on the window sill … seat _thing_ which Sera had apparently herself constructed out of sewn-together fabric scraps and miscellaneous throw pillows. He took care to avoid the curiously-shaped stain on the cushion which Sera had apparently—unsuccessfully—tried to cover up with a blanket.

The woman stuck her tongue out playfully at the insult-turned-nickname, which Dorian used more often than her real name these days (and he would continue to do so, he had told her, so long as she kept referring to him as “fancy-arse”). Then she stood, swinging her hips around the corner of a table, and plopped down next to Dorian. “Where’s your poke buddy?”

Dorian stared at her. “My—? Are you referring to—”

“Yeah, chicken. Your poke buddy. Get it? Oh, frig— _chicken_?” Sera giggled in delight at herself. “’Cause _peckers_?”

“Laelion and I have a very emotionally wealthy relationship,” Dorian informed her, having to wrestle back the childish urge to laugh along. “It doesn’t rely on _pecking_.”

“Sure. Right.” Still grinning, she took a big bite of her muffin. Beside her, Dorian drew a preparatory breath.

“Listen—and I realize the ramifications of what I’m about to ask, but I _am_ desperate—you wouldn’t happen to know an Elvhen phrase, would you? A particular phrase?”

As expected, a look of utter disgust crossed Sera’s face. “Ugh, no. You know who I am? I don’t do that elfy shite.” She waved her non-pastry hand at him. “Why don’t you ask poke buddy?”

Dorian gave a labored sigh. That would be the easy thing to do, of course—in fact, if their roles were reversed, Dorian was certain Laelion would be doing just that. “I’m intentionally avoiding asking him. I don’t want him to know.”

At that, Sera scoffed. She picked a raisin off of her muffin and then took another bite, this one twice as big as the first. “Why’s it a secret?” she asked after a moment of chewing, crumbs tumbling from her lips.

It occurred to Dorian that Sera was trying to gross him out whilst simultaneously holding an actual conversation with him. Impressive. He decided to take a convenient interest in the bookshelf across the room so as to avoid watching food fall out of her mouth. “Well, it’s—he said it while he was half asleep, so … I don’t think he meant to say it.” Dorian shifted, acutely aware of how silly that might sound to her. “I didn’t want to ask him. In case I wasn’t meant to hear it.”

Sera paused. “Huh. So what’dya think it means?”

“He said it while he was fighting me for more covers. So, maybe it’s an … insult? A friendly insult?” That wouldn’t surprise him. Laelion did call him _ass-face_ on rare occasions. It wouldn’t be a great shock if he upgraded to teasing him in Elvhen.

“Huh. Yeah.” The woman considered that for a moment, turning her food this way and that, before a wicked grin crept across her face. “Prob’ly means, like, _cocksucker_ or _arse-thumber_ or something.”

“Charming,” Dorian said dryly. _But not impossible._

The woman giggled. Then shook her head. “Well, I can’t help you. Go ask … ” She gestured vaguely. “Y’know, rim-face … puckered-looking nug-head … demon-humper.”

“Solas?”

“Yeah. Go ask _him_. He _shits_ elfy. And I bet he’d love to flaunt his brains.”

She was right, of course. And Dorian knew it—had known it, in fact. Coming to Sera first was an act of sheer desperation, a plea to whatever Maker or other deity might’ve been listening in to bestow him with the bountiful gift of _not_ having to deal with Solas. But now it was time to be pragmatic, and if Dorian wanted his burning curiosity sated, there was only one way to go about it. Sighing heavily, he stood to take his leave.

Sera held up a finger to stop him. This time, she finished chewing and swallowing before speaking. “And if you wanna ask elfy, you better hurry.” She grinned. “’Cause I was gonna hide spiders in his desk chair later. And you’ll wanna catch him in a good mood, yeah?”

This time, Dorian grinned back at her. “I appreciate the warning.”

* * *

It would not suffice to say that Dorian and Solas, at this moment, had a _tense_ relationship. That would be like saying Corypheus had an attitude problem.

It had begun as a surface level thing—a product of their societal differences, to be sure—and Dorian had hoped it would not progress. After all, he had dealt with many people who had disliked him based solely on his status or his background, and had in fact become rather adept at navigating those sorts of relationships. Alas, as the two men began to spend more time around one another, it became clear that there was quite a lot for them to bicker about aside from the practices of ancient (and modern) Tevinter. _Every_ little thing Dorian did seemed to piss the elf off, even when he was making a painstaking effort to be thoughtful. At this point, all Dorian could reasonably do was entertain himself by pissing off Solas even more, since their relationship was fucked anyway.

The sad thing was, it simply didn’t have to be so. It was the Maker’s fault, Dorian was certain. That Solas thought he was better than Dorian (and just about everyone else, as near as the man could tell) would perhaps not have been an issue of this magnitude if Dorian had not been born Dorian of House Pavus, most recently of Minrathous. But, regrettably, he was. And so whatever force of fate or intelligent design operated upon the world had decreed that he and Solas were simply not to get along.

That didn’t mean they couldn’t be cordial, of course; in fact, more often than not, they were. Both men were smart enough to realize that bickering amongst themselves would do neither of them any good. Dorian also supposed—though the very fabric of his being ached with the admission—that Solas might actually delight in the opportunity to share his knowledge and would thus be suitably accommodating and perhaps even not insufferable. It was this idea, as well as two hours of self-preparation and a fifth of a bottle of whisky, that lead Dorian to Solas’s quarters later that same afternoon.

The elf was at his desk, reading some book, a mug of what was likely tea in one hand. Dorian paused in the doorway and knocked on the frame.

“Dorian,” Solas greeted, not looking up.

“Solas.” He stepped in, taking a moment to glance around. Dorian didn’t spent very much time in Solas’s … _appointments_ , for fairly self-evident reasons. Every time he _did_ find himself in the room he was always surprised and a bit put off by the state of the place—stacks of tomes that even Dorian would find terribly boring, disheveled missives, empty mugs, and of course some new coat of paint on the walls. Always some vague and confusing symbol—a figure, a glowing staff, a wolf—glittering upon the large expanse of wall that Solas had erroneously been given full control over. Maybe that was why Solas had such a sour attitude. Being around paint fumes all day must’ve given him a permanent headache.

“What can I assist you with?”

Dorian cocked an eyebrow. “Whatever makes you think I need your assistance? Perhaps I merely sought inspiration for my next outfit. I’ve been thinking on your point that I’m too bold, I'll have you know. I’ve been meaning to return to something perhaps more primal. Craft a statement by crafting an understatement, and all that. It’s all very subversive, very daring. ”

The look that Solas gave him was so unimpressed that Dorian felt physically pierced by his gaze. It occurred to him that he should probably not make fun of somebody before asking them a question.

“Ah, actually, I _do_ need your help with something, old sport.” He sniffed. “I was wondering if you could translate an Elvhen phrase I came across.”

“Ah.” Now that his ego was apparently on the track to getting stoked, Solas was straightening in his chair, regarding Dorian with a more measured expression. “Yes, I suppose I can. What was the phrase?”

Belatedly, Dorian hesitated, shifting his weight. If the phrase in question meant something like _round-eared ass-head_ or _stupid shem_ he wasn’t particularly certain he wanted Solas translating it for him. Ah, well—he had already broken through the proverbial dam; it was too late to back out now. “It was— _ma’vhenan_ , or something similar. Does that sound familiar?”

An unintelligible expression creased Solas’s brow, barely perceptible even by Dorian’s keen and mildly paranoid eyes. “Yes. _Ma’vhenan_ —that is a common Elvhen term of endearment between lovers. It translates, roughly, to ‘my heart’.” The elf either didn’t notice Dorian’s shifting expression or simply didn’t care, sweeping on with a casual shrug of his shoulders. “Many Dalish use it regularly to express love to their mates, as do some elves outside of the Dalish tradition.”

Dorian blinked. Then blinked again. Then considered turning and sprinting from the room to avoid responding. Maybe setting Solas’s desk on fire just to ensure that he didn’t feel compelled to follow. He opened and closed his mouth. “Ah,” was eventually all he could come up with.

Solas quirked a thin eyebrow. His curiosity was damn near palpable, but thank the Maker, he didn’t ask any more questions before silently returning his attention back down to his book.

Dorian gave a stiff, awkward nod, not quite what to do about the rush of warm and tingly emotions he was currently experiencing. He inched towards the door. “Er, thank you, Solas.”

Solas turned a page, not lifting his eyes. “It is no trouble.”

* * *

It was well past midnight when Dorian finally, slowly, pushed open the door to the Inquisitor’s quarters.

He had spent the entire day _avoiding_ Laelion. There was no other way of putting it. He’d taken his dinner in the tavern instead of the dining hall, with the Iron Bull and his outfit. Then he’d scouted out an obscure and out-of-the-way corner of the library, far from his usual spot, to spend the rest of the night in. Dorian had firmly planted his nose in a tome to avoid the temptation of looking up, looking around, trying to spot a certain curly-haired elf.

Now he stood in the doorway of the darkened bedroom. The moonlight’s watery white sheen barely illuminated the shape of the bed. Dorian took a few silent steps in, squinting, attempting to locate the elf amid the blurry shapes created by the rumpled covers. The thought that Laelion would still be awake had occurred to him; the elf went through bouts of insomnia, as did Dorian. Usually when that occurred one of them would seek the other one out, just for some company. That had not happened this night, but still—Dorian had debated with himself for almost an entire hour, lingering in the hall outside of Laelion’s door, trying to decide whether or not it was a good idea to go inside.

 _Ma’vhenan_. My heart.

At first Dorian had been dazed by the romance of it all. It was like a storybook—a man confessing his love to another in his sleep, overheard only by chance. But as the day progressed, Dorian found his fantasies giving way to doubt. What if Laelion had been dreaming about someone else? Someone he left back in the Free Marches? Or what if he simply hadn’t meant to say it at all? Dorian had certainly heard himself say something nonsensical while at the precipice of a dream before. What if the whole thing was a fluke?

Then what would he have looked like, marching up to Laelion to confront him? Wouldn’t he have looked presumptuous? Or worse— _desperate_? Foolish?

And so Dorian had stayed far away from him for the night, as only a highborn from Tevinter could. That had gotten him thinking—perhaps it was unwise for him to keep coming to Laelion’s quarters at all. Perhaps he needed to create some space between the two of them. After all, Dorian’s heart was a careless thing, scarred by fall after fall and yet still so stupidly willing to get up and try again.

But— _kaffas,_ he didn’t want to do that. He felt guilty for not speaking to Laelion earlier, and despite the paranoid thoughts cycling through his mind, foretelling of certain pain and heartbreak, Dorian _wanted_ to spend time with Laelion. These days it was all he wanted to do, in fact.

Maker help him.

Fortunately for Dorian, tonight was not one of those nights where his ever-moving mind kept Laelion up well into the morning. As he drew closer he could make out Laelion’s dark-haired head on a pillow, his neck and a sharp shoulder poking out from the sheets. At this distance Dorian could hear the other’s quiet snoring, persisting even as he removed his boots and unbuckled his leather armor, leaving both neatly folded at the foot of the bed. Now dressed only in a cotton undershirt and smallclothes, Dorian climbed onto the bed as carefully as possible, slipping under the covers behind Laelion. He slid a hand over the elf’s waist and across his bare chest, locking their bodies together. Even now, with his stomach churning and his face unnaturally flushed, the fit of Dorian’s body to Laelion’s was as natural as a gemstone’s to a ring.

At the touch, Laelion sighed. “… Dor?”

Dorian didn’t reply. He tightened his hold on the elf’s waist, pulling him in until his back was pressed to the mage’s chest. Laelion didn’t resist, merely shifting to accommodate the new presence in his bed.

“You mad at me?” the elf mumbled after a few silent moments had passed.

“No.” Dorian paused, then swallowed. Now would be a good time to bring it up—the elf was pliant with sleepiness. He would probably not notice how red Dorian’s face was or how much his voice wavered.

But ah—there it was again. That doubt. A determined little thing, it was. Dorian let his eyes fall shut, silently cursing himself and his paranoia and his stupid, stupid heart.

Laelion shifted slightly. “… Are you lying?”

“… No.” Somewhere beyond the Inquisitor’s elegantly arched windows, Dorian thought he heard the coo of an owl. All of Skyhold was quiet at this hour. It was a normal thing, but at this moment it felt to Dorian like the world was holding its breath. “Go back to sleep, Laelion.”

The smaller man gave another muted sigh, but said nothing more. Dorian laid there and stared at the moon in the window, not daring to move an inch, until he felt the elf’s hand travelling up his wrist. Thin fingertips grazed over the Dorian’s knuckles before slotting into the valleys between them. Dorian willed the muscles in his arm and wrist to relax into the touch, as though it might translate to his still-churning stomach as well. He exhaled. _Just breathe_. This was fine—natural, normal. Same as it had always been. Nothing had to change, right? Not just for the sake of some half-whispered word …

“ _Ma’vhenan_.”

Laelion’s moving fingers froze. Dorian, realizing too late what word had slipped from his lips, froze as well.

 _Fuck. Fuck._ He didn’t mean to say it. He hadn’t even meant to _think_ it! His traitorous mouth had just … _said_ it aloud, as if it had a mind of its own and that mind was specifically set on ruining his life. Breath tight in his throat, Dorian squeezed his eyes shut, praying that the Inquisitor’s Anchor might choose this moment to flare up and swallow him in a rift.

Silence stretched between the pair of them—one second, two seconds, three— _fasta vass,_ why wasn’t he _saying anything_? Had he fallen asleep again? Was he trying to come up with a polite way to kick Dorian out of his bed? Would it be better if Dorian just left before he could say anything?

Then, a hum, quiet and low. Laelion pulled Dorian’s hand up to his mouth, pressing a kiss to the mage’s bent fingers. Unlikely as it was, Dorian thought he could feel the elf’s lips curl into a smile.

“Ditto,” the elf whispered.

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this kind of for dorian x inquisitor week? because all of the actual prompts for the week are smut, and i don't write smut, but..... here's this thing, anyway.
> 
> man. i need to write sera more. she rules.
> 
>  
> 
> anyway, thanks for reading. your feedback is appreciated!


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